A Travelogue of Young Adulthood
by readerofasaph
Summary: A loosely-plotted story centred around Fuji, Yukimura, Tezuka and Kirihara in their early twenties. Part 1: Yukimura pays Fuji a visit, and convinces him to backpack around Europe together.
1. Chapter 1

_April 3rd. Somewhere outside Aix-en-Provence._

He arrived, not with a doorknock or ringing of the bell, but by a flutter of bird's wings.

Syuusuke, who since the weather took a shift for the warmer had been in the habit of leaving all windows open, looked up upon hearing the sudden feathery noise – just in time to see the last of the sparrows gyre upwards. The apple tree branches were still trembling from the momentum of their departure. He approached the window, pushed aside the lace sheer curtain. The unobstructed view revealed a figure in jeans and white shirt, facing away from the cottage, slim head tilted back to observe specks of bird dissipating into the sky.

Syuusuke allowed the curtain to fall back into place. When he opened the front door, Yukimura was already standing at the end of the garden path, smiling.

"Fuji. It's so good to see you."

Syuusuke absorbed fleetingly the visual effects of the scene – a backdrop of green-bright foliage, dotted with orange blossoms; sparsely budding rose bushes, outlined against the low white fence that encircled the cottage garden, and the tall figure standing just off-centre, angle too confrontational for a good photograph. The image passed instantly into his mind; there was no lag between Yukimura's final syllable and Syuusuke walking forward, one hand proffered. "Yukimura-kun. What a pleasant surprise."

Yukimura's handshake was steady as ever, the kind you wanted to depend upon. "Sorry for the lack of warning. I wanted to call, but I didn't have your number, and your e-mail address wasn't working."

"I changed it." He didn't ask how Yukimura had discovered his _physical_ address. "Would you like to come in?"

They had tea using the set Syuusuke had bought from an antique shop in Nice, bone china cups underglazed with willow leaf and blue dragons. Yukimura refused the sugar biscuits, the _gaufres du Nord_, and seemed content to breathe in the flavour of black Darjeeling. Syuusuke had a vague memory, from university years, of seeing him knock back consecutive cups of double-shot espresso before morning lectures.

"How is your sister? I thought she was living here as well."

He explained that Neesan was in Brussels attending a conference on palmistry, then asked Yukimura what he had been doing since graduation.

"I worked for a year."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"Most of the time. But it made me appreciate student life a whole lot. So much so that I'm going back for my Masters in September."

"Where at?"

"Los Angeles. University of California."

"Ah." He felt it then, a mild unjustified cocktail of envy and resentment at the apparent abundance of _movement_ in Yukimura's life. "They have nice redwoods."

"And cacti. And Echizen." Yukimura's eyes were laughing. "You should come to visit."

"I'd love to, Yukimura-kun, but I can't afford it." It was in fact Neesan and her thirty-five-year-old, half-Egyptian half-Italian, stock broker fiancé who paid the rent on this cottage, and the latter, after a long winter, was showing definite indications of desiring Syuusuke's departure. While Syuusuke was no stranger to the art of being unobtrusive - he'd accumulated a great deal of experience playing third wheel in high school, thanks to Eiji's biweekly succession of girlfriends and addiction to double dating (after about a year Eiji had discontinued the practice because the girlfriends kept developing crushes on Syuusuke) – it was undeniable, nevertheless, that five months of hospitality lay beyond the ken of patience and familial obligation. Back in November Neesan had been homesick and overwhelmingly happy to see Syuusuke. He would not have left, then, even to please an unhappy boyfriend. Now she was busy with work, smiling at the advent of spring, preparing for marriage. While a younger brother would never be unwanted, he was certainly unneeded.

Yukimura gave him an assessing look, and perhaps read something of the situation in Syuusuke's face. Perhaps he knew already, whether through Yuuta or Inui or Yanagi Renji. It was Yukimura Seiichi, anything was possible.

"Well, would you like to travel with me, then? I plan to cover Western Europe this spring and summer – on a shoestring, as they say. I could use the company, and a tour guide. Your French must be light-years beyond mine by now."

He murmured a denial, and then belatedly remembered, at the sudden flash in grey eyes, that the Rikkai tennis players had never been known to like false modesty. "But I do get by quite passably. The vocabulary of everyday conversation. Where do you plan to go?"

"As much of southern France as you can bear, although you must have seen most of it already. Then Spain, and then the British Isles. Atobe's family has two houses in England; he says we're welcome to use them. I'd like to reach Berlin by early May, before Roland Garros begins, but we'll see."

"I've never been to Germany."

"Haven't you? That's surprising. Atobe goes there every year, usually around Christmas. He loves the place. Have you been to England, then?"

He had, but not since before starting university. Yukimura drank his Darjeeling, finally. "Hmm. I hadn't realised that." From the way he said it, it could have been sincere, or it could have been a baldfaced lie. "You and Tezuka were close friends, right? I thought the first thing you'd have done would be to catch up with him."

_Because I was afraid_, Syuusuke thought. _Because we were so close._ Because, in truth, he had not wanted to see _anyone_.

He did not really want to see anyone, even now. But Yukimura was sitting in front of him, dazzlingly whole, and the social contact was surprisingly bearable. It was – pleasant, even.

"I would very much like to come with you. Thanks for the invitation."

Yukimura smiled. Syuusuke met his gaze face-on and was struck with the recollection of dark eyes in an angular face, watching from behind rimless, elliptical lenses, carrying a purity Syuusuke would never reach, hiding secrets Syuusuke had been powerless to touch.

Powerless then, and now. So unlike the young man in front of him. Another memory, just as clear, of Yanagi Renji saying that Yukimura had always been able to get what he wanted, except for the one thing he wanted the most in the world.

"You know, Yukimura-kun, you're very good at persuading people."

"I've had a lot of practice." He pulled out a map from the pocket of his straight-leg jeans and began to open it out, an A2-sized glossy sheet that had been refolded along all the wrong creases. "Do you want to start planning now? I've been looking forward to this for so long."

It was Syuusuke's turn to smile. "What are you looking forward to the most?"

"To everything." There was a fountain pen lying on the low table. Yukimura uncapped it and drew an exuberant black line all around Europe, running from Aix-en-Provence to Andalucia to Dublin to Frankfurt. "Absolutely everything."


	2. Chapter 2

Seiichi in fact knew everything, had known everything since before he even stepped on French soil. It was why he had come to see Fuji. Or at least partly why; he'd always liked Fuji as a person. Most of the time he had reason to believe that those feelings were reciprocated.

Fuji wished to say goodbye to his sister before beginning their journey, which meant that they would not leave until after the weekend. In order to give Fuji time to pack and prepare, Seiichi decided to spend the next two days exploring the town and surrounds by himself. He had a list of places he wanted to visit but only consulted it intermittently. It was good to be prepared, but never _too_ prepared; there was a certain richness of experience that could only be encountered when you allowed yourself some spontaneity. This was true of life, and also of art.

Through a combination of planning and desultory wandering he had a delightful time in Aix-en-Provence. On the first morning he visited two museums and a library filled with old, yellow-papered books. After that he had lunch on the Cours Mirabeau, in a cozy, modern cafe that served its salads in pastel-coloured square bowls. Seiichi was pleased to find that he could understand the waiters with ease, even with their southern accents. His own spoken French was average, and badly pronounced despite his efforts, but exotic good looks and an easy smile served him well. He ignored the inner stings of humiliation that occurred whenever he made a simple error. Mistakes were inevitable, and he intended to speak _better_ French by the end of summer.

He saw many things he wanted to sketch, as he walked through the streets: mainly fountains, with their stone decorations and falls of water catching the sunlight at brilliant angles. He found an ornate park bench outside a church and sat there for half an hour quickly pencilling out the scene before him: graceful old-fashioned buildings standing in rows, and and trees with flowers coming into bud everywhere. Next to a nearby streetlamp there was a child feeding pigeons; and across the street a golden retriever pranced at the feet of a blond-haired boy. There was a great deal of life in this place, too many pedestrians and changes in cloud and daylight and shadow; each time Seiichi looked up from his sketchpad the view was a little different. He smiled when he thought of the days to come and the places the two of them would see together, of the click and whirr of Fuji's camera while Seiichi searched for easel and charcoal, each of them seeking to capture the present moment in his own way.

In the evening he went back to his hotel and called Tezuka.

"I've met Fuji," he said, after the necessary polite greetings. "He's much the the way you thought he would be."

"Ah." In the silence that ensued Seiichi could feel questions being considered and discarded in the other man's head.

"Not as bad as I feared," he added. "I think Provence suits him. It's an awfully picturesque place." Fuji had always liked beautiful things, and if he had a propensity for seeing the melancholy side of beauty – well, as long as he took pleasure in it, that was a good thing, wasn't it? "Do you wish to call him?"

Again, a pause. Seiichi listened to the background noise at the other end of the connection – a kettle boiling, muted sounds from a radio or television. Finally Tezuka spoke: "I hope the two of you have a good journey together."

Seiichi thought he could hear an unspoken _thank you_ in that response, unless he was imagining it. Hard to tell with Tezuka. "We should be able to visit you in Berlin next month. We'll catch-up then."

"I look forward to it. Akaya misses you."

He raised a brow. "Is he being a nuisance again? I grew up with Sanada, you know; if you're too subtle I shall completely fail to understand you."

Tezuka sounded amused. "No, he's not a nuisance."

They exchanged a few more pleasantries (or rather, Seiichi did; Tezuka's responses were somewhat shorter, although gracious) and then hung up. They'd always gotten along well, although not with the intense, non-verbal recognition of kinship that Sanada and Tezuka seemed to share. Or Tezuka and Akaya, for that matter.

Akaya. It'd been such a long time. He placed his cellphone on the bedside table and lay back on the coverlet, staring up at the ceiling.

Tomorrow he would visit Mont Sainte-Victoire, where Cezanne used to paint in his mountain hut. He would not think about tennis. This last thought was almost a postscript, an old mental habit he'd thought long gone. He did not pay any attention to it, and if as he prepared for bed some memory stirred in him of sweat, endorphins, pleasantly aching muscle, the springy sound of ball bouncing off racquet, it was only a superficial recollection, and did not cause pain in his sleep that night.


End file.
